Snow falls and tries to catch my eye
but my eyes aren’t tuned to what’s outside
but rather to an inner feel
of all things manifest.
They’re crazy eyes that feel your smile
and look away at day’s end sigh
but how they focus both as one
when called upon by love.
They’re bluer than I think they are
and sunken somewhat ‘neath a brow
that wrinkles and, yes, crinkles up
when all the pieces do not fit.
Eyes, my eyes, they’re not alright
when pulled off course to the left
away, away, so far away,
from what they know is right.
Sometimes they’re heavy, sometimes light,
sometimes they simply cease to fight
and close upon the battle field
sad and weary to the core.
They work though, yes, and really hard
when you say this and they see that
and then, of course, they bow to ears
as if ears are masters of the truth.
Eyes, my eyes, perhaps they lie!
Helen / 17 January 2012